


Taking Advantage

by A_bit_not_good_yeah



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Drunkenness, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Oral Sex, Sherlock is a tricky bastard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 18:06:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_bit_not_good_yeah/pseuds/A_bit_not_good_yeah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At Lestrade's birthday party, Sherlock gets drunk, John takes him home, sexy times ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking Advantage

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at Sherlock fanfic, so I really hope you enjoy it! Thanks for reading, and comments are like warm hugs from puppies to my soul.

“You should have paid the driver more, John. He’s just got a new flat and is going through a divorce, and what with 3 kids and one more on the way, he could use the extra.”

“How do you bloody—nevermind. Let’s just get you inside and get you some water.” Sherlock is pressed clumsily up against John, with his arm around John’s shoulders, and John’s arm around his waist. Sherlock is also very drunk.

******************************************************************************

It started off innocently enough. It was Lestrade’s birthday, and John convinced Sherlock that they should go to the party. Lestrade was one of the few people that Sherlock might consider a friend, and since they had just solved a major case, there was nothing else for them to do that night. It helped that solving a big case also put Sherlock in a more agreeable mood than usual.

“I think it will be fun. And if we go, I know he’ll be pleased. It might go a long way in smoothing over that thing with the illegal passports, which you know he’s still holding against you.”

Sherlock didn’t look up from plucking his violin. “Fine, John. We can go.”

“Really? Fantastic. I’ll go change.”

“Oh yes, do. That’s the third time you’ve worn that oatmeal jumper in as many weeks, probably because you think it goes well with your eyes, which it does, but enough is enough, John. Perhaps you better try one of the stripey numbers?” John noticed one corner of Sherlock’s mouth raised in a slight smirk, but Sherlock kept his focus on the violin.

“Take the piss all you want, we are going to have fun at this party. Real fun. As in, no dead bodies around, no murderers chasing us, no near-death experiences, FUN.”

“Dull.”

John sighed and went to his room to change. Sherlock watched him go, still smiling.

******************************************************************************

The party was at a pub called the Watering Hole, which made Sherlock scoff as they entered. In spite of that, he was actually behaving himself pretty well. He even gave cursory nods of greeting to Donovan and Anderson, which bordered on miraculous. John wasn’t sure what was responsible for Sherlock’s good mood, but he definitely wasn’t complaining.

It was a nondescript sort of place, with dark wooden booths, loud music, and low lighting. Sherlock had to lean very close to speak into John’s ear when he pointed out Lestrade. Sherlock’s lips even grazed John’s ear slightly, which made John’s skin hum, as if it were buzzing at a higher frequency than everyone else’s. He shook off the sensation and made his way through the crowd to say hello to Lestrade, and Sherlock stayed close to him as he followed. John had noticed that Sherlock tended to do that in crowds—stay close to him, so close that John could feel the brush of Sherlock’s coat against his legs from time to time. It should have made him feel claustrophobic, but it didn’t. Secretly, John liked it because it made him feel protected. Maybe that’s not right…connected, more like. Connected fundamentally to someone. That was a rare feeling for John. He supposed that was a rare feeling for most people. That he was connected to a probable sociopath was something he tried not to think about too much. When he did allow himself to think about it, his chest got tight and the air got thin; whether this was from excitement or from fear, he honestly didn’t know. He knew that he liked being near the harsh angles of Sherlock Holmes, knowing that he was too bright and too dangerous. Which was ridiculous. It was like standing too close to a man made of fire or shards of broken glass. John knew that getting too close would end in pain and misery, but sometimes he wondered if it might be worth it. He found himself wondering that more and more, actually.

Sherlock gave him a curious glance, his eyes darting over John’s face, as if he knew what John was thinking about. John blinked, and a blush started to creep up his cheeks.

“I’ll just get a beer, then. Want anything?”

“Gin and tonic.”

John started at that. He was really only asking to be polite because Sherlock rarely drank in public. He rarely drank at all, really. Said it “dulled his senses.” But, John had said they would try to have fun, so that’s what he was going to do. And he thought it might be fun to see Sherlock tipsy.

******************************************************************************

2 hours and 5 gin and tonics later, John was pulling Sherlock out of the bar by the lapels of his coat as the world’s only consulting detective was shouting “AND MANY MOOOORE” to finish up his rousing chorus of “Happy Birthday” to Lestrade. Sherlock was giggling as John pulled him over the threshold and steadied him as he signaled for a cab.

“Oh look, that magister is about to have it off with a call girl. Pity, it’s only her second week on the job. That’s definitely not her natural hair color. D’YOU KNOW SHE’LL CHARGE YOU DOUBLE FOR THE SPANKING, SIR?” Sherlock hurled at the two figures across the street. John pulled him closer and shushed him loudly.

“Sorry! Terribly sorry. Drunk.” John apologized, pointing at Sherlock and shaking his head. _I should have known_ , thought John. _Man doesn’t eat for days at a time, never drinks, and now he’s completely blotto. I should have cut him off at 1. Not that he would have listened._

“What a stupid song. ‘Happy Birthday.’ As if wishing for happy birthdays or for many more years could possibly have any bearing on the recipient’s happiness or longevity.” John noticed that Sherlock’s voice, normally a smooth baritone, has gone an octave lower so that it sounded like a deep purr. His words weren’t slurred from the alcohol, not really—Sherlock Holmes would never allow something so pedestrian to happen as slurring his words—but they sounded a trifle lazier, like he was tasting each one for half a second before releasing it into the world. Or onto John’s neck, given his current position. John shuddered slightly as Sherlock swayed closer to him, hoping Sherlock attributed his reaction to the cold. Sherlock continued his drunken tirade, scoffing, “Wishes don’t have any bearing on the real world or human behaviour and the whole idea of them is dull and useless sentiment.”

“Why’d _you_ start the singing, then?”

“Well, it was his birthday, wasn’t it? I’m shocked I would have to explain the social convention to you.”

“Mmhm. And since when do you care about social convention?”

“I have my moments, John. I’m full of surprises.”

When John laughed at that, Sherlock gave him that curious glance again, and it was as if John could actually feel Sherlock’s fingers probing and prying into his brain, trying to glean a clue or reveal a secret. John met his gaze, knowing he must look confused and guarded, but not backing away from Sherlock’s investigation. _What are you looking for?_ he thought.

Just then, a black taxi pulled up and John struggled to get Sherlock to cooperate with him and get in the backseat. The man was all sharp edges and expensive fabric, and his long limbs were folding and unfolding in curious ways as John maneuvered him over to the passenger side and got in after him.

Sherlock ended up sprawled out on the passenger side with his head back and his eyes closed, the pale column of his throat exposed. He was wearing the aubergine shirt that fit him like a glove, with the top button unbuttoned. His blue scarf was bunched up in his lap and his legs were spread wide, so that his right leg was touching John’s left leg. John could feel his body heat through his trousers. John had only had 2 beers but he could feel himself growing flushed. Seeing his flatmate so loose, so _undone_ was making his head feel fuzzy around the edges. Of course he had noticed Sherlock was attractive before—that was obvious. The pale skin, the dark, unruly curls, the sharp eyes, and those cheekbones… But he had brushed it off as an objective appreciation of beauty, the way fine works of art are beautiful. Suddenly Sherlock’s long limbs and relaxed heat were pushing boundaries, no longer attractive in the abstract. John wondered what it would be like to touch the source of that heat, to let it consume him.

“221b Baker Street, please,” he told the cabbie thickly, for his mouth was suddenly dry.

As the cab sped through the streets of London, John tried to get control of himself _. You’ll take him home, you’ll get him some water and put him to bed, and that will be that. No problem. Flatmates do this all the time._ The cab rounded a corner and Sherlock’s center of gravity shifted so that he was now slumped up against John’s left side. John felt Sherlock’s dark curls graze against his cheek and neck, and the skin there tingled, like each hair was conducting tiny volts of electricity. John pushed Sherlock back over to the passenger side, and hoped Sherlock didn’t notice the way his hands were shaking as he did so.

******************************************************************************

Once they managed to get the front door open, John half-lifted, half-dragged Sherlock up the two steps and they stumbled into the hall, Sherlock falling into the wall.

“Are you alright?” John asked, grabbing at Sherlock’s coat to help steady him. He caught hold of the coat in his right hand, but Sherlock suddenly twisted and John’s left hand ended up between the coat and Sherlock’s hip. Surprised, John was carried forward by Sherlock’s momentum, and toppled forward, so that Sherlock was pressed with his back against the wall and he was snug up against Sherlock’s body.

“Right, haha. Sorry. You ok?” John looked up uncertainly at his friend, his eyes playing over Sherlock’s face. Was friend the right word? Under normal circumstances, he would say yes. These were definitely not normal circumstances, though.

“Yes. Fine, John.” Sherlock’s voice was still low and smoky from the alcohol. The laughter had gone out of it though. He sounded more like Sherlock now, his words gaining back some of their sharpness. John thought he also sounded a tiny bit curious.

John began to straighten up. He braced his right hand on the wall next to Sherlock’s shoulder, even though doing so caused him to shift minutely closer to the detective. Everything was too warm, and he could feel his pulse stuttering under his skin. At this proximity, he could smell Sherlock’s shampoo, and juniper from the gin. _God, his skin is so pale. How easy it would be to leave marks on him, to suck right there under his jaw, and then work my way down…_ He gasped when the hip still under his left hand shifted suddenly, snapping him out of his daze.

“God, John, would you please stop this incessant _thinking_? You’re driving me mad, it’s so loud, just stop it.”

Mortified, John froze. “What are you talking about?” He tried to keep the panic out of his voice, and looked at his feet, the wall, anywhere but at Sherlock. Sherlock was staring down at him, though, he could feel it burning like a brand on his skin and so he tried to regain his footing, to get away. His legs were tangled up in Sherlock’s still, which made things difficult.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and then rolled his hips, grinding against John’s thigh for a brief moment. John inhaled sharply and shakily, trying to get a grasp on what was suddenly happening, and failing. Then Sherlock Holmes was kissing him.

And, oh, what a kiss. Sherlock’s movements were normally so quick and precise but this was slow almost to the point of laziness. John’s body reacted immediately, hungrily kissing him back, causing Sherlock to lick against the seam of John’s lips, inviting himself in, exploring John’s mouth. John managed a sound of surprise that was half question, half moan. Sherlock seemed pleased at that, because John could feel him smile and then he was kissing the line of his jaw, his earlobe, his neck.

“What are y—oh, _God_ , yes” came spilling out of his mouth before he could stop it, because Sherlock had interrupted his question by finding the pulse point on his neck and sucking hard.

“I told you,” Sherlock hummed against his skin, “stop _thinking_. You’re making my skin buzz, I can’t concentrate on what I’m going to do to you.” With that, Sherlock took two steps forward so that John was now the one with his back pressed against the opposite wall. His coat enveloped them both as Sherlock continued to explore John’s neck with his teeth and his tongue. He would nip lightly, testing the pressure, then soothe the spot with his tongue. He repeated this pattern but never in the same spot twice, and it felt _marvelous_.

“What you’re—wait, what, I—” John couldn’t complete the thought because Sherlock had captured his mouth again, this time more aggressively. Tired of feeling helpless to stop whatever was happening to him, John assaulted Sherlock’s mouth, biting his lower lip, sucking his tongue. John reached up to tangle his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, and it was as glorious as he had imagined it would be. The soft curls felt like silk under his hands, and he tugged perhaps a bit too roughly in order to angle Sherlock’s mouth so he could deepen the kiss even more. Sherlock made a predatory noise, a low rumbling growl that vibrated against John’s teeth and the shivers it produced in John seemed to travel all the way though his body straight to his rapidly hardening cock. _Oh fuck, this is really happening…_

Suddenly a horrifying thought struck him. He reluctantly pulled back from Sherlock’s kiss and pushed him off just a little, both of them gasping as if they’d been drowning. In a way, they were.

“Sherlock. Are you still drunk? I don’t want to be taking advantage…I mean, if what I think is going to happen is going to happen, I want you to not be drunk. I want us both to be—what are you laughing about, I’m serious!”

“Oh John, really, I thought your deductive skills were better than that. Disappointing, very disappointing. I shall have to punish you for that.” He leaned in and stole another brief kiss.

John spluttered, “What do you mean? Are you not—were you faking?”

Sherlock sighed, exasperated. “Oh, fine, I shall explain, shall I? I know you’re attracted to me, John, that you have been for some time.” John started to stammer “I don’t—“ and Sherlock cut him off.

“Since the day we met, I believe. All the classic signs. Dilated pupils, elevated heart rate, sometimes even perspiration and shallow breaths if I get very close to you. Remember when we had to hide in that closet from those counterfeiters? I know you’ve had encounters with men in the past, presumably during your military service, but nothing serious and nothing lasting. You don’t think of yourself as a homosexual, which is fine. Boring. I also know that you weren’t going to act on your attraction to me anytime soon and probably not without the aid of alcohol given your previous habits with the women you’ve shagged since we’ve known each other. Lestrade’s party offered the opportunity for you to drink and for me to test how close you would allow me to get under the pretense of drunkenness. Obvious. I believe you’d agree that’s gone quite well so far.”

“But how did you--? I watched you drink all of your drinks!”

“Oh, please. Even I know how to slip the bartender a tenner to make the drinks weak. You underestimate me.”

“Sherlock,” John pinched the bridge of his nose in the perfect expression of weariness and frustration. “Why would you--? Why? I’m not a bloody specimen that you can do experiments on!”

Sherlock made the face, the “I-can’t-believe-I-have-to-keep-explaining-this” face. “In spite of your inability to keep up with my plan in this particular situation, I find you fascinating, John. You…surprise me. And I am rarely surprised. And as I said, I knew you wouldn’t act without some, ah, coercion. Are you really complaining about this? Are you suggesting I miscalculated? You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

John rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help blushing a bit remembering how warm Sherlock’s mouth was on his just moments ago. “This is not how people do things, Sherlock.” His voice took on a fragile quality, and he hated himself for it. “Are you—are you saying you’re attracted to me too?”

“Of course.” Sherlock punctuated this with another roll of his hips. John could feel the thick hardness of Sherlock’s cock against his thigh and made a tiny strangled noise in the back of his throat.

“And you couldn’t have just told me that?”

“Why? I knew how I felt and I knew how you felt, and I knew you’d be very tedious and want to talk endlessly about it for some reason. Dull. This, on the other hand, allowed for some very interesting data collection.”

“Dammit, Sherlock, I said—”

“I know, I know.” Sherlock sighed again. “You are not an experiment, or rather, you are, but one that I think will yield new and interesting results with many, many different sets of data. I’m not going to get tired of you, if that’s what you’re worried about. There are so _many_ things I want to know,” he whispered against John’s ear. John drew in a shaky breath.

“So! Obviously, I think the next order of business is for me to fuck you senseless. Now, can we please get on with it, explaining is so much more boring than actually doing.” And he leaned in to lick a hot line just under John’s jaw.

John tried, and mostly succeeded, to suppress a soft groan. “Oh, fuck it. Yes, whatever you want. Yes.”

Sherlock’s eyes glowed in triumph, almost silver in the dim light of the hallway, and his lips, swollen from kissing, stretched into a wry smile. John thought he was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.

******************************************************************************

They fumbled their way into the flat, a whirlwind of roaming hands and grunts and falling clothes. John pushed Sherlock’s coat roughly off his shoulders, letting the wool tumble to the floor.

“Bedroom?” John murmured against Sherlock’s mouth as he struggled to get his trainers off without breaking their kiss. Sherlock chuckled, low and rough, and the vibrations on John’s lips made him gasp. His fingers scrabbled with the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt, while Sherlock worked at John’s belt. As Sherlock’s brilliantly long fingers grazed the skin underneath the waistband of John’s trousers, he let out a shuddery moan. They traveled deeper into the flat, reaching Sherlock’s bedroom in no time. There were papers everywhere, and what looked to be tubers growing in various jars on the desk, but the bed was clear.

Sherlock pushed John against the bed, so that his knees buckled and he sat on the edge. Somehow John had managed to lose the rest of his clothes on their path to the bedroom and his boxers were all that remained. He could see the fabric of Sherlock’s expensive trousers straining against his arousal and John’s mouth actually began to water with the thought of sucking and teasing that cock.

Sherlock’s shirt was now gone and John took the opportunity to splay his hands all over the marble of his skin. He wanted to memorize every inch of it, the tiny scar under his ribs, the planes of his smooth stomach, the soft line of hair that led from his bellybutton downward. His mouth followed his hands, and he began to use his tongue to trace every outline, ghosting kisses on Sherlock’s stomach and pressing his thumbs into the curves of Sherlock’s hipbones.

His brain was overloaded with sensation, with the knowledge that he was making these soft sounds come out of Sherlock’s mouth. He wanted to memorize it all, but there was too much, Sherlock was everywhere, everything was filled with him, standing in front of him and taking up so much space. His whole _life_ was filled with Sherlock, every moment of every day, but he had never imagined it could feel like this, and he was terrified and exhilarated and so in love with the way this brilliant man was making him come apart.

Tired of not being able to touch all of Sherlock’s skin, John rapidly undid his trousers to slide them down his legs.

“No pants?” he chuckled, not entirely surprised.

“Why bother? They’re not— _ohh_ ” Sherlock’s explanation was cut off with a sudden release of breath when John leaned forward to swirl his tongue around the head of Sherlock’s cock.

“See?” huffed Sherlock. “Surprising.” John looked up at Sherlock, lips stretched around Sherlock’s thickness, and when their eyes met, Sherlock let out a low moan.

It had been many years since he had done this, but John quickly made up for lost time. He slowly licked a line up the underside of Sherlock’s shaft, and then proceeded to take him fully in his mouth again, as far as he could manage.

“Oh, John, oh please, yes, _please,_ ” Sherlock whispered. John took a deliciously obscene satisfaction in the knowledge that this was the first time he’d ever heard Sherlock ask for anything so politely. He began to move his head, clumsily at first but then building up a rhythm, hollowing his cheeks and sucking in earnest. He kept the pressure firm as he used one hand to grip the base of Sherlock’s cock, sliding over what his mouth couldn’t accommodate. His other hand was caressing the muscles of Sherlock’s glorious arse, drawing him closer. Sherlock’s hands fluttered through his hair, tracing patterns along his neck and shoulders. He was breathing more raggedly as his fingers skimmed and then pushed into the knot of scar tissue on John’s shoulder, which made John swallow unexpectedly around Sherlock. Sherlock cried out like a wounded animal and pushed John back so that his mouth pulled off his cock with an almost comical ‘pop!’

“Stop, you have to stop, I’m going to come and I don’t want to yet.” Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, presumably willing his body to obey his wishes. “Now. Let’s see what I can do that will be equally enjoyable for us both, Doctor Watson.”

Sherlock was suddenly straddling him, maneuvering him back onto the bed and deftly removing his boxers with one hand. Now they were both finally naked, Sherlock braced on his hands and knees, hovering over John, and John could feel Sherlock looking at, _observing_ his body. He had heard of being devoured by someone’s gaze before, but this was like being surgically taken apart. He sensed every detail that Sherlock was fixating on, filing away—his scars, his flaws, the exact color and texture of each cell. It was exhilarating, in a way, to be on display for Sherlock and to be the subject of his penetrating gaze, but he felt so raw. He wanted to crawl away or shield himself in some way, but he knew that this was important somehow. Sherlock must have noticed his muscles tense— _of course he noticed, he notices everything_ —and leaned down to kiss him again, slow and sweet. John relaxed into his mouth and then let out a weak moan when Sherlock’s hand found its way to John’s cock. Here his long fingers stroked John’s achingly hard length up and down, and when his thumb swiped across the head, John inhaled sharply, breathing in the taste of Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock rocked back onto his knees so that he could reach into his bedside table. John felt the absence of his mouth and his heat immediately. He never knew that he could feel a physical need for a person this intensely. Of course, Sherlock was introducing him to all kinds of realizations about himself that were unexpected.

Sherlock produced a small tube of lube and started to slick his fingers.

“Sherlock? Are you sure you want us to…”

“What? Do you not want me to fuck you?” Sherlock sounded put out, but John was fairly certain he was shamming. John was also fairly certain that Sherlock had caught on to the fact that every time he said that word, it sounded like the most glorious obscenity, and if it was possible, it made John even harder.

 “No, that’s not what I meant, I just wanted to be sure—”

“Yes, John, I’m quite sure. I very, very much want to. More importantly, I just _want_ you.” Sherlock punctuated this last by kissing John thoroughly, fucking his tongue into his mouth.

John reluctantly broke the kiss, breathlessly asking, “But, without a condom, I mean?”

Sherlock waved that off impatiently. “Oh, I’ve already performed the necessary tests on both of us, and we’re both clean. Not to worry.”

“You’ve performed tests? Of course you have, what am I saying. And just where in the bloody hell did you get a sample of my blood? Do I even want to know?”

“Taken while you were sleeping. Hush.” Sherlock leaned back down to kiss him again before John could protest any more.

John wanted to be upset, but it was very difficult when he had this half-wild supernova of a man on top of him, licking and sucking what felt like every single nerve ending in his body. Sherlock scooted down the bed a bit and spread John’s legs wide. He could feel the tip of Sherlock’s finger slip-sliding, circling his entrance, testing, applying light pressure.

“Relax,” Sherlock said, holding John’s gaze with his own. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” The response was automatic, unthinking.

Sherlock slid one finger slowly inside of him. John gasped at the intrusion, but Sherlock’s other hand pinned his hips down on the bed, swirling patterns across his skin and soothing him. He was hovering over John again, trailing kisses across his chest and neck. Then he began to push deeper into John, and as the burn intensified, his finger brushed John’s prostate. John let out a surprised whimper that took the form of Sherlock’s name.

After that, time moved both agonizingly slow and fast all at once. Sherlock added a second finger, scissoring John open and testing his limits. John had often stared at those long, elegant fingers, wondering what they might feel like on his skin, but to have them inside of him was the purest form of razor-edged bliss. As the pain turned to pleasure, John began to spill nonsense syllables from his lips but at the core it was always “oh” and “yes” and “fuck” and “Sherlock.”

He could feel Sherlock watching him again, cataloguing each flicker of emotion across John’s face, filing each sound and breath away into that brilliant calculating mind. If this was what it was like to be one of Sherlock’s experiments, John was slightly ashamed to admit that he didn’t mind one bit.

Satisfied that John was ready, Sherlock removed his fingers, and John felt the sensation acutely as _missing_ , as _needing_ and _wanting_. As if he were now _incomplete_. The thought both frightened and thrilled him.

Sherlock quickly and efficiently spread the lube along his cock and positioned himself in front of John’s hole. He gently kissed John’s inner thigh, then braced himself with the hand on John’s hip, pinning him to the mattress, and again their eyes met. Taking whatever he saw in John’s eyes as a sign of confirmation, Sherlock began to push into him slowly. John let out an inhuman sound and Sherlock continued to push, knowing in that supernatural way he had what John meant. His nerves were caught between the edge of _please don’t_ and _never stop_ as Sherlock kept making his way inside.

Finally, Sherlock was completely inside him and began to move. He heard Sherlock’s breath catch in his throat as John shifted his hips slightly so he could move to meet Sherlock’s thrusts. They found a rhythm immediately, and John was amazed at how natural this all felt, how _right_ , as easy as breathing. Every sensation was delicious and he could feel each blood cell racing through his veins as Sherlock marked him from the inside out. Sherlock’s hands on him, pressing into the curve of his hips, were so hot and firm, and he knew he would have bruises there tomorrow. He didn’t care.

Again, Sherlock found his prostate and it was as if he were crossing live wires inside of him. John made a high keening noise in the back of his throat and shivered, even though his skin was feverishly hot. Sherlock began to increase the pace, taking note of exactly where to touch John to make him fall apart. John could feel his orgasm building and knew that the noises escaping him were loud and messy and not caring. He began to repeat Sherlock’s name like a mantra and closed his eyes, he was so close—

“No. Look at me, I want to see you.” Sherlock commanded.

John’s eyes snapped back open and saw the concentration on Sherlock’s face.

“Come for me, John, I want to see you come,” growled Sherlock, and suddenly his hand was on John’s leaking cock, and that touch combined with the anticipation in Sherlock’s eyes was enough and he was coming so hard, feeling the hot stickiness of his release on his chest and stomach. It was like being struck by lightning. John felt every muscle in his body contract as he rode through the aftershocks of his electrifying orgasm, and Sherlock stuttered and buried himself even deeper in him as his own orgasm hit him. John couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard his name in Sherlock’s release.

******************************************************************************

John had used the undershirt he’d been wearing earlier to clean himself off and now he was sitting on the edge of the bed, still trembling slightly. Whether it was from the overwhelming physical sensations he’d just endured or fear of what was coming next, he didn’t know. Sherlock was facedown on the bed, long limbs sprawled everywhere, head turned away from him. He hadn’t moved in a few minutes, and John wasn’t sure what to do. He was debating whether to gather his clothes when he heard a muffled, “Don’t.”

“What?”

He could almost see Sherlock’s eyes rolling through the back of his head. He hated repeating himself. “You heard me.”

“Don’t what? Get dressed? Go back to my room?”

“None of it. Come here, John. Stay.” There was a hesitation. Sherlock rarely hesitated. “Please.”

John couldn’t believe his ears. He lay back down on the bed, moving Sherlock’s left arm out of his way. As soon as John was settled, Sherlock slithered over and around him, so that he was still facedown, his arm now curled around John’s chest and his left leg insinuated in between John’s thighs. John sighed, trying to sound annoyed, but it came out more relieved than anything else. Sherlock turned his head to nuzzle in between John’s neck and shoulder. John could feel him breathing there, warm and solid and resolute. He brought his hand up to run his fingers through Sherlock’s tangled mess of soft, dark curls.

“Sherlock?”

“Mm?”

“What did this mean? To you?”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. John felt his chest tighten, because he knew that Sherlock was actually considering his words before he said them.

“I wasn’t anticipating…that was more satisfactory than previous calculations had indicated.”

“Well, that’s good. I mean, I’m glad. Are you saying you’d want to repeat the experiment?”

Sherlock pressed a light kiss to the hollow behind John’s ear. “Of course. Proper experimentation requires repetition to confirm results. Besides, isn’t that what people in relationships do? Experiment to find out what each partner likes?”

John shot Sherlock a sideways glance. “Is that what you think this is? A relationship?”

Sherlock huffed impatiently, “Obvious. We’ve been in a relationship for months now, you were just too thick to realize. Really, John, do keep up.”

John decided to let that one go, because he could feel his limbs sinking further and further into the bed as his body cried out for sleep. The heat that bloomed in his chest at the idea that Sherlock Holmes was choosing him for whatever qualified as a relationship in his twisted brain also made it difficult to protest.

“Fine,” he sighed, kissing the top of Sherlock’s head. “But next time you decide to make decisions about our relationship, we are going to have to coordinate.”

“As you wish, John.” 


End file.
